


What you're running from

by towardsmorning



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towardsmorning/pseuds/towardsmorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>(Prompt: What starts as a sexual exploration becomes more than either of them know how to deal with.)</i>
</p><p>"Molly was fairly sure it wasn't quite her Sherlock was seeing, somehow. And she wasn't sure how she felt about being a proxy for that... <i>man</i>, that monster."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What you're running from

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. This has been sitting around for a while, and I kept trying to FINISH it. But it would. Not. Cooperate. In the end, I left it as it was. I apologise, therefore, for the abrupt ending; but on the other hand, I almost like the way it leaves you hanging. Gives you a taste of how _they_ feel, in a way.
> 
> Title from Your Biggest Mistake by Ellie Goulding.

The first time they had sex, it was preceded by a feeling of intense scrutiny in, Molly thought quite appropriately, the lab. An experiment. A specimen, even. That described what she was.

Sherlock had been out of hospital for maybe two days, tops. Molly had gone to visit when she'd heard, once there'd been time to give the necessary statements, and panic a little, and then panic a lot. Eventually there had been a strange man who had interrupted everybody, smiled politely at the officers and taken them all off to talk with. Not before he'd mentioned that he didn't think anybody would be needing to talk to her again and that it would be best for everyone if she simply put it out of her mind.

Molly had nodded mutely, signed a piece of paper she didn't want to think too much about, and managed to plead her way into Sherlock's room. The feeling that swelled up was almost thankful that he was still out cold, which she immediately felt guilty about, but then she didn't think he'd have particularly appreciated the visit anyway. The room was private, and it was eerie and empty and quiet and... she just stood, staring at him stupidly for a few moments before leaving, door swinging shut silently behind her.

But apparently he had decided that hospitals were for mere mortals, and he'd discharged as quickly as he could get away with, because there he was. Acting as though it wasn't an obscenely late night shift he had no business interrupting, let alone with the injuries she could still see traces of no matter how hard he tried to hide them.

There he was, scrutinizing.

Molly was fairly sure it wasn't quite her Sherlock was seeing, somehow. And she wasn't sure how she felt about being a proxy for that... _man_ , that monster. Nor was she sure what she could even show about him, though this was Sherlock, and heaven knew she could only guess at what he could deduce things from. But Sherlock was there, staring and intense, and Molly had gone back to an empty flat and a gripping terror he was going to _come back_ these past couple of days, and whoever Sherlock was looking at when he looked at her... he was someone to hold onto despite that.

Someone who knew exactly why her hands were shaking.

It was strange. Mildly discomfiting even. The lights were on full glare, which was completely out of the ordinary for her- she preferred darkness for this, much less exposure of all the parts of her she didn't like. They barely even undressed- once he'd apparently made up his mind this was going to happen, Sherlock had snapped into full-efficiency mode. Knickers out the way, skirt today so that was convenient, a finger sliding so smoothly it made her gasp- when had he gotten lube out?- then two, then a finger through the gaps in her shirt, brushing just so against the spot that made her hiss.

He didn't seem to want much in return, but she'd kissed him anyway. To her surprise, after a moment's hesitation he'd responded, albeit clinically. And, to be honest, not that well. Perhaps he'd never done this before, was trying it out to kill two birds with one stone. Sex and... whatever else it was he thought he'd glean from her and her short relationship with... him. ( _Come on Molly, you can say his **name** , silly girl._)

She didn't last long after that.

Once she'd recovered her breath, and knickers, and a little bit of her pride, Molly faced him.

Sherlock looked at her- her, this time, definitely. Then he simply nodded once, something unidentifiable behind his eyes, and left.

Her hands still shook, but when she went home that night she thought, _he's still looking_ , and she didn't feel safe but she did feel like maybe one day she would.

*

The next time he came to her house. He even had the manners to knock, which she honestly didn't expect from him. She'd kind of expected to one day just walk in and find him going through stuff from work he couldn't be bothered to pretend to flirt with her for.

Opening the door had made her inexplicably nervous, even though the newly installed peephole meant she knew exactly who it was. The nervousness was routine by now, though it had been getting better, and she supposed she was 'making progress', whatever that meant.

Sherlock had simply stood on her doorstep, inscrutable as ever. The distance between her side of the door frame and his suddenly seemed impossibly long.

"Um."

That had been far too close to a squeak, she thought somewhere in the back of her mind. She cleared her throat and suddenly the manners she could never bring herself to let go of, no matter the situation, kicked in. She dragged up a smile that wasn't really forced at all if she was honest, despite the late hour and strange, almost unwelcoming gaze he had trained on her.

"Come on in, of course, sorry!" Sherlock brushed past her, and she shut the door gratefully, shivering in the cold.

(It suddenly struck her that she has no idea how he even knows where she lives. She reassured herself mentally that it was probably just some obscure detail left on her clothes and that she wasn't welcoming a stalker in.)

"You're still up."

It sounded to Molly like a statement, not a question, so she didn't reply. He sounded surprised, actually, which is new and strangely tantalising, like without even trying she'd managed to acheive... something.

The sofa was taken up by Toby, predictably.

"Just kick him off," she called through from the kitchen as she clattered mugs around and made too much noise to try and fill the silence. But when she emerged with lackluster coffee in bright mugs he was still just- stood.

He looked...

Awkward.

That was new.

Yet suddenly she saw how out of place he was. Sherlock Holmes did not fit in with cats, bright mugs and the worn out edges around her comfortable little flat. He was all contrast and lines, white skin and dark hair looking strange under her softer lights.

She could deal with awkward, she thought. That was something she had a lot of experience with.

The second time they had sex, it was in her bed. This time he actually let her reciprocate, and the power she felt at dragging even the slightest reaction out of him had Molly utterly enraptured. The scars and half-healed abrasions on his back less so, yet she couldn't help but feel strangely flattered he was willing to let her see that touch of mortality.

Morbid thoughts during sex, but their first time had been in a morgue, so there it was.

He left immediately after, with a distracted nod that was almost too polite to _be_ truly polite after, well, something like _that_ , and a comment about how yes, she should really make an appointment with the vet. She didn't bother asking how he knew she'd been putting it off.

She did sit up just as he left the room, struck by a thought. "Is..." He turned to look at her, eyebrow cocked. "Is this going to be... well... a regular-" she swallowed, unable to finish, the thought suddenly seeming like the wrong one for the moment. She changed tack. "It's fine. Don't worry about it. Just..."

To her surprise, he gave the faintest flicker of a smile at that. Which part, she wasn't sure.

"I won't."

*

It was after the fifth time that Sherlock stayed.

This time had been different from all the rest, Molly thought. She couldn't pinpoint any particular thing that tipped her off to it. Perhaps because he had shown up a little earlier than he tended to, maybe it was the way he began just a shade faster than normally, barely taking a moment for his obligatory flick up and down her flat to judge what had been happening in his absence.

It had been raining out, and despite the coat and gloves he stripped off he felt chilled to the bone. _Must've been out there for a while_ , she had thought, and almost giggled when she realised he was rubbing off on her. _Oh, bad choice of words._

They were used to each other now. It didn't take long, because for Sherlock 'used to it' meant 'can get her off efficiently', but she didn't really mind at the late hour to be honest. And he was ridiculously good at it for someone she'd originally thought completely lacked interest, so that helped.

Molly eventually looked at the clock after dozing for a while at around four AM. Looked back over her shoulder to see Sherlock still there. Back at the clock again.

Well. At least he wasn't as cold now, she thought dimly, vaguely registering that his breathing had slowed and he seemed to actually need sleep after all, contrary to expectations.

She should be thrilled, she supposed. The Molly of a few months ( _god, is that all_ ) would have been. But somehow the new development terrified her, someplace deep and small inside. Because that-

That wasn't what she expected of him. She'd seen enough of him to start predicting things, and now he'd gone and stayed precisely where he was, mouth an inch from her shoulder.

Quite possibly on purpose, just to unsettle her.

Quite possibly, and even worse, not.

( _Why had he been out for so long? Why had he come **here** when he was done?_ )

Bastard.

Molly slept. Eventually.

He'd left when she woke up, but she could still feel the ghost of warmth in the bed behind her.

*

It took her a while to realise he'd programmed his number into her phone's contacts.

For a moment she wondered if it would seem desperate to call him, until Molly remembered that no, she was trying to _stop_ acting like a teenager with regards to... whatever this was.

It went to voicemail anyway, but at least she'd gone through with the call. In the end, she sent a text. She was more likely to get a reply then anyway.

_feel like giving me some warning next time?_

The response, she noted with a little irritation and a little amusement, was almost immediate.

_Shift key, Molly. And I don't plan them in advance, so no. SH._

That was... unexpected.

_doesnt seem like you._

She didn't really expect a response, but somehow it still feels like a confirmation when the phone stays silent. Of what, she wasn't sure. Maybe just the idea he's not some puppet master who can pull all the strings for his own amusement.

The thought made her smile.


End file.
